


raised on leather // some silken moment

by ennaih (aquandrian)



Category: Original Work
Genre: 90s references yay, Casual Sex, Established Relationship, F/M, Recreational Drug Use, also rapturous romanticism, another Mendo AU yep, occasionally rough sex, shameless domestic fantasy, snark and swearing cos Mendo, this is as close to xReader as i get
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 12:05:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12365406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquandrian/pseuds/ennaih
Summary: Two prompt fills featuring a gold cross earring and a baby twink Mendo.





	1. raised on leather

**Author's Note:**

> Cos Em of benmendelsohnappreciation shares my slight obsession about 90s Mendo, and has no qualms about sending me multiple prompts that make me choke.
> 
> Note: this is not the same universe. They're two alternative universes in the one story so don't worry, there's no infidelity going on. We Mendhos do not care for that shit.
> 
> Reference gifs by [benmendelsohnappreciation:](http://the-mendho-lyf.tumblr.com/tagged/rebagelling-for-reasons)
> 
>  
> 
>   
> 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: protagonist spots curly haired baby twink Mendo at a bar one night. He's not half as tough as he thinks that dangly cross earring makes him look....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from _Devil Inside_ by INXS.

_here come the woman // with the look in her eye // raised on leather with flesh on her mind_

That earring is ridiculous. And he looks so cheeky and pleased with himself as he comes through the glitter and gold of the bar that it’s impossible not to laugh and fall a little bit in love with him. At first damned sight. This baby twink with his dark curls and his sparkling eyes and sly clever mouth, inviting debauchery. She watches as he joins his group of dirty pretty things, smiles in her own circle of friends, caught and curious. 

The music is raucous, so very here and now in this age of tarnished finery, everyone trying to be punk but not too punk, alternative but not too alternative. Like him in his torn black jeans and sleeveless band tee, plaid shirt tied around his hips, and Docs well scuffed. He’s trying so hard to be bad and it’s adorable right until the moment he grins at some speculative girl, and his sexual cunning gleams in the wet curve of his mouth, the glint of blue eyes.

It flicks a switch in her. Oh, to break the baby twink. Corrupt him so thoroughly he’ll never be the same.

It won’t take much effort. Laughing with her friends as she moves into his line of sight. Knowing she will be noticed, one more fuckable female in the bar of many. It’s Saturday night on Oxford Street, shabby chandelier glowing gold above them, music pounding at the white walls and open windows. There’s smoke in the air, drugs in the blood of people around them, hookers and clubbers on the pavements far below. And she does the thing almost without thinking - tucking a feathery curl behind her ear to expose the inside of her wrist, signalling availability. In the second after, she realises and laughs quietly to herself, flicking a glance his way.

He’s noticed. And looks away almost immediately, the mouth of the beer bottle at his lips as he says something in reply to his friend. The bright gleam of his eyes stays with her, that shimmer hint of blue because he’s so pretty with his fair skin and dark brows and bold straight nose and fine pink mouth. He smokes with one hand, drinks with the other, lounges against the bar and laughs like some young prince of stage and screen. And there’s glance after glance, some almost missed, accidentally on purpose colliding heat between the passing people. A half smile exchanged, acknowledgement, this silent dance of flirtation across space and changing songs as the smiles deepen and the held looks lengthen.

And eventually he moves away from the bar, she comes out of her circle of friends. The same subtle curve of smile, it’s not romantic, it’s not exactly predatory, but it’s that perfect weird alchemy of Saturday night on Oxford Street in a Sydney summer. They’re tall enough that she can look him right in the eye, feel his breath on her mouth as he murmurs, “Hello,” as if they can hear each other over the grunge roar.

“Hi,” she replies, wanting to touch him already, like it’s so natural to trail her fingertips down the centre of his chest. But she doesn’t. He seems so very young this close, the curve of his cheeks and the soft shape of his chin. That earring glints trashy gold, oddly sharp and dangerous. Trying so hard.

Just like that, she moves into control position. Power slides through the line of her shoulders, down her spine. Two fingertips against the print of his tee, she looks at him directly and says with the perfect lilt and inviting smile, “Have you seen the VIP room here?”

His breath catches, excitement leaping in eyes that are blue grey at this proximity. “No. Are you -- can you --”

She doesn’t wait to listen. Takes his hand and leads him through the crowds of talking and drinking people, back to where the stairs go up and around the red brocade corner. His fingers wrap around hers, warm and harder than she expects. She likes the way he follows. Just how far can she lead him? 

At the door, he crowds her for a moment, breath hot and excited on the back of her neck. His other hand grasps at her hip but then she’s got the door open and they’re through into the dark private space.

He falls back into the plush black couch, his gaze fixing up at her. The wall behind him is black brocade, fairy lights trickling gold down on his beauty. He looks at her, breath unsteady, and she’s made aware of her physicality, a fuckable female here and now. She’s clad in leather that’s soft and sleek, making her legs look very long. Black lace top that frames the leather straps and cups of the harness bra just so. He grins his appreciation but she sees the uncertainty around the edges of that cockiness. It makes her like him that much more.

Bracing one knee against the edge of the couch by him, she slides two fingers under lace, watching his reaction. He twitches instantly, wide eyes and narrow lust focus. Two fingers under leather, into the tight bound cup, easing out the little concealed baggie, and it’s her turn to crowd him a little, watching his mouth part on a gasp. “Want one?”

He agrees too quickly, little boy playing with things he shouldn’t touch. The little pink pill says Sky on his pink tongue, and the little boy turns seductive as he closes his wet curving wound of a mouth and smiles knowingly at her. Distracted by a thought, she takes hold of his hair, running her fingers through this tangle of curls. She’s wondering if he’ll be dead within the year, this reckless young man who’s all impatience and demand now. His big hands slide around her arse, pulling her closer to that mouth tipping up.

The last thing she sees before she closes her eyes is that cross so sharp gold. His mouth is warm and alcoholic, fumes and eagerness. She feels tangled in him, a stab of panic that turns reckless and exhilarating because yes, this here and now, fucking in the black and gold because she’s all leather and he’s all greed. He kisses with open mouth, sloppy and moaning a little as the chemicals wake, his hands roaming up, up to grope at her breasts. She rakes her fingernails a little down his cheek as they kiss and feed on each other. It doesn’t take him long to start biting at her mouth, recognising the toppling of barrier after barrier in the anonymity of stranger fucking. 

He sucks on her tongue, the same rhythm they’ve picked up from the song thundering through the black walls, the same rhythm as he grabs her arse in the snug leather and grinds her against him. Little gasps between them, gold flashing darkness of wet mouth and so much shocking intimacy. She grips the back of his head, letting him devour her mouth, and pushes her hand down between their bodies. Unties the plaid shirt, pushing it away. His cock is a hard ridge in the shabby jeans and then bare and big and blood hot in her hand as he moans and pushes his face against her throat. It startles her a little, this sudden trust and vulnerability he reveals. Glinting gold that she bites as she jacks him and he clutches at her, rough little sounds spilling from his throat. 

“Don’t come,” she warns him, breathless and hot in her clothes.

“No,” he agrees automatically, choking on his words. “I won’t -- I want -- please --”

She pulls away, delighted at how debauched he appears already. “Good. Look at me. Look.” 

This spectacle just for the two of them. She unbuttons the lace top and casts it to the couch, black on black. And his laugh is ragged, eyes glittering dark blue as he looks at the leather cutting black lines across her chest.

“Touch,” she says, softer than she intends. 

“God,” he moans, his hand shaking a little as he lifts it and traces the leather warmed from her flesh, the line down from her throat, the shapes framing the curve of one breast, then the other. His face reddens a little, eyes slumbrous blue, his mouth slackens open and sluttish. Unable to resist, she puts the edge of her thumb against his lower lip, soft pink she wants to invade in every possible way. Without thinking, so focused on his own hands shaping her breasts, he sucks at her touch, and it roars through her. Hand in his hair, she drags his head up and kisses him hard. 

The violence in him speaks to her, it’s there in the hint of teeth and the push of his mouth into hers, the way his fingers tighten a little too hard on her softness. They peel down the leather cups enough to spill her breasts to the hot gold air, enough so he makes a savage sound in his throat and closes his sharp mouth on one nipple, then the other. Unabashed sensuality that clenches her cunt wet in soft leather as he pulls her roughly into his lap, boy toy and play doll. His cock is trapped between them, she lets him bite and suck at her nipples for a little while, enjoying this feeling of being consumed, and then breaks his hold to swarm down, her spine bare and winding as she pushes him back with one hand and swallows his cock into her mouth.

He swears, his hands immediately in her hair, pulling because he’s not a nice boy after all. But then she knows she’s very good at this, and it shows with the way he hunches over her, hands slipping on her spine, his mouth spilling so much profanity. In her head, she sees the image they make, all pale flesh and dark hair and black clothes, splattered with gold light. That cross of his will be flashing with the shakes going through him, hitting the side of his jaw. In her mouth, his cock is one more secret taste learnt and kept, her spit and him leaking salt. She uses her teeth on him and it makes him shout a little into the music but he holds her in place and fucks her mouth, hard hands and hard rhythm, unrelenting until she has enough and breaks his hold once more. 

That’s not what she wants anymore, what she wants is to rub his cockhead all over her chest, over the leather straps that shape her breasts. He snarls at her and catches hold of her nipple, cruel fingers that pinch and alarm her a little but then he reaches down and grabs the back of her neck, lifts her mouth to his as he lifts her back into his lap. 

His tongue is in her mouth the moment he cups her cunt with that ridiculously big palm. “Oh god,” she gasps into him, shocked all over again at his size. That carnal knowledge of his comes through, not so cruel now but tells in the sureness of his touch, the way he peels the leggings down over her arse and kisses her mouth again as he strokes her cunt. He knows already how to contain his urgency, it makes her want to ruin him, reduce him to that baby twink.

But he’s clearly much more than that. And when he lays her back on the couch and eats her out with enough clumsy eagerness, she laughs and lets herself enjoy it. Tugging at his curls, liking the sharp prod of the cross against the inside of her thighs, the rough little sounds of pleasure he makes like some hungry animal feeding. He licks and fingers her cunt til she comes and comes, and then she does hold his face there, coming on his pretty cheekbones and mouth and that perfect nose. Pleasure pulsing through her like throbbing guitar lines, arching her up against him in pure abandon, glorying in this risky stolen experience. 

His face is even prettier glistening with her come in the dim golden fairy light, and he knows it, grinning at her as he covers her body with his and dips his head to kiss her mouth deep and long. “Fuck me now,” she whispers and he agrees, his desperation breaking like sweat on his skin. 

First with her on her back, arching with a cry into the drive of his cock into her. Arms around his curly head, his breath hot and urgent on her throat. He still has most of his clothes on, the print of his tee rubs weird against the tips of her breasts. She’s so wet she takes him easily, the heat of her making him shake and fuck her harder. “Don’t come,” she says, “not yet. Turn -- let’s -- I want it like --”

Then she’s draped over the edge of the couch, bare breasts out of the leather bra and crushed against the warm upholstery as he kneels on the floor and tilts her arse up with his big hands and fucks her faster, cruel once more. Her nipples rub against the striated surface of the couch, she’s already anticipating the slight soreness of her cunt tomorrow. The fairy lights flash gold between her lashes, the music thumps at the door, he’s matching their rhythm to the song and it’s making her groan with delight into the couch, half wondering how many girls he’s fucked like this, barely wondering who took his virginity.

But then he pulls her up, and she recovers enough to push him back on the couch. “Fuck yes,” he mutters as she straddles him and they ease her down onto the fierce hot shape of his cock. He’s swearing again, that litany of profanity as she grasps the black ridged edge of the couch behind his head again and rides him with undulating spine and bare nipples framed in black leather and catching gold. His hands are on her arse, trying to pace them but she’s in control now. Sweat and snarling guitar lines, black brocade and cockflesh catching her sweet spot right there, right there, harder and harder. The cross flicks against his jaw like she knew it would, beautiful flagellation that she knows must hurt and hurt. He’s so fucking pretty like this, all gasping uneven mouth, flashes of dark blue eyes, tumbling black curls, his face reddening and reddening. She fucks him relentless, fucks him til she sees every bit of that control shredded, til he’s lost any intellect, is all helpless broken and pleading, til he shakes and cries out when he comes into her, an endless breaking of this baby boy trying so very hard to be a bad man.

But there is such a thing as aftercare. So she cuddles him as he comes down, stroking his hair off his face as his breathing slows. All the while carefully building the ramparts around her heart because one fuck in a room with black walls and fairy lights does not mean happy ever after. It’s a lesson she has to keep relearning. His clutching at her turns to a smooth calm embrace, his mouth against the slope of her breast. 

When it starts to get weird, she disentangles herself with a small embarrassed smile.

“What -- what’s your name?” he asks with some irony. She’s turned away from him, seeking a measure of privacy as she restores her clothing, knowing he’s doing the same.

“Oh … does it matter?” But she says it with enough humour and smiles at him over her shoulder.

He shrugs, his mouth twisting as he looks down, retying the plaid shirt around his hips. Maybe he starts to say something but then thinks better of it, darkness crowding the shapes of his face. 

When they’re both dressed and he’s looking slightly uncertain and resentful at her, so very young, she steps forward. Puts a hand on his face and kisses him lightly on the mouth. “Don’t take drugs from a stranger, okay? You don’t want to die in a shitty club on Oxford Street.”

He grins, startled. “That’d be a pretty horrible cliche, right?”

He’s clever, she realises that now. A little too late. Stifling the regret, she smiles at him and says, “Right. Take care of yourself.”


	2. some silken moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: baby twink Mendo goes and gets his ear pierced. When the gf gets home she has.....a reaction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from _Mystify_ by INXS.

__

_some silken moment // goes on for ever_

She hears the door open before his very cheery very ironic yell through the music: “Honey, I’m home!” And the immediate giggle because he’s very easily amused, especially by himself. 

On the couch, she laughs softly as she closes her James Baldwin novel, glancing up for the moment when he appears at the top of the stairs. His hair is so very unruly at the moment, this close to being a mop of curls, always the first thing she sees when he comes up the stairs. 

If he doesn’t yell happily at the door, it’s his footfall that signals his mood. When it’s a silent return and his foot is heavy on the stairs, then she braces herself for his crippling vulnerability and so much anxiety. Six months of living together has taught her this much. 

But this arvo he bounds up the stairs, already talking, so much energy and sunshine. “I was thinking, you know, maybe we could -- remember that thing yesterday on the show with the guy --” And then he sees her and stops. The big heartmelting smile spreads across his face, his voice changes and softens right down. “Hello.”

“Hello,” she says back, warm all over and half mortified by it, by the utter openness of this feeling, this joy. He comes towards her on the couch, his smile turning a little sly and sexually speculative. It’s the way his mouth curves slim and wantonly open, the particular glint of blue in his eyes and the subtle flick of his lashes. She knows exactly why, controlling her amusement as he comes through the sunshine and warm colours of the warehouse loft they share. He likes this blue bralette thing she wears, the elaborate lace trim on its upper edges, the two shades of blue, royal and bright, the band of lace against her midriff. It’s not why she wears it, it also happens to be her favourite and most comfortable thing for summer. But it doesn’t hurt that he appreciates it so much. Appreciates her in her blue lace and blue gingham pajama trousers and bare feet. 

“Hello,” he says again with such tenderness as he leans down and she lifts her face with a faint smile. That’s when she sees it. Afternoon sunshine streaming through the big windows of the loft, gleaming the warm wooden floorboards and the spring green of the plants, glinting off the pure gold sharp cross dangling from his ear. It stabs pure lust through her, shocking her back against the couch arm. He grins, clearly hoping for just this.

“Like it?”

She swallows, already reaching her bare arms around him as the Baldwin novel slides off her and falls to the floor. Managing through a dry mouth, “Wardrobe tests today?”

“Mm-hmm.” He sits on the couch, pulling one of her legs across his lap and leaning back against the other so he’s nestled between her thighs. “Do you like it?”

“What are you supposed to be, some sort of debauched choirboy?” She wants to bite it, bite at the pretty shapes of his face with that clever quirking mouth and bright eyes. But she settles for putting her arms around him so they’re a tangle of limbs and warm bodies comfortable together. He’s gone from energetic to lazy in no time at all, a certain smugness about the way he pillows his head against her bare shoulder and lets her sift her fingers through his tickling curls. In a moment though, his leg is going to start twitching with all that restless energy.

“Nah.” He gives her a slightly reproachful look. “Young punk --”

“Oh, definitely.”

That giggle again. “-- no, but he’s skipped bail, on the run --”

“With his punk choirboy earring?”

He laughs, his fingers ceaseless in stroking her thigh through the thin cotton. “He’s very bad, you know! Well, he likes to think he’s bad. Trying a little too hard. Ha.”

She watches that thoughtful expression as the song changes on the stereo, clanging melody through the warm bright air. That earring is so ridiculous but he looks so pleased with himself it’s impossible not to fall in love with him all over again. She plays with his hair, petting him because he likes to be touched as much as she likes to touch him. And he comes back to her with a quick soft smile. “They’ll be here soon?”

“Not yet. I said seven, we’ve got a few hours.”

“Cool.” He looks down at where his palm smooths along the contour of her thigh, the gold earring bumping his jaw. 

“Have you worked out your menu?” she asks, half teasing because he’s so proud of his newly learnt cooking skills. He gurgles a laugh deep in his throat, so much still a boy and fascinating for this slide into adult masculinity she gets to watch. 

“I reckon. I’m just gunna -- I was thinking maybe -- “ he leans into her touch, thinking aloud as the light gleams his face and she strokes down the slope of his cheekbone “-- so I’m going to do the pasta, right? And the baby rocket thingo --”

“Salad.”

“Yeah, fancy fucken salad,” he says with quick sarcasm and flicking hands. “That -- and should I make chips?” Eyes bright and demanding on her face.

She screws up her nose. “Pasta and chips? Nah, carb overload. Wouldn’t want to --”

He grins, catching her thought. “Yeah, they’d hate that. And for dessert, I was thinking -- we gotta have dessert,” he assures her, very boyishly serious.

“Of course.” 

“Like fruit and something? Or --”

“A nice jus … or coulis, what is it? Coulis,” she says, all exaggerated just to make him laugh. 

He pinches her thigh lightly, sparkling blue eyes. “Nah, come on. Or mousse?”

“Do you even have time to make mousse?”

“I could!” he exclaims indignantly. “I could do it -- I could make -- can you get it from the supermarket?” He switches tack so fast, earnest and adorable that she laughs and tugs at his curls. 

“Yes. You silly.”

But they don’t move, too lazy and happy to be lying together on the couch, idly petting. The stereo plays on through the CD, the Garbage album she knows he doesn’t particularly like but tolerates like she tolerates his hideous rap tracks. She loves this life they’ve built together, how they’re surrounded by his stuff and hers in a comfortable attractive chaos. It’s so much theirs.

There’s one wall he’s started painting blue and insists he’ll finish soon. The plants they both try to water diligently, the toppled rice paper lamp in the corner that glows warm ivory in the night. Fairy lights on the black wall behind their big unmade bed with the blue linen. The loft is long and large, that they’ve managed to make into sections of an organised chaos. No curtains yet on the big windows but that’s all right because they’re protected by the blue sky and the tops of trees bright green in summer as the traffic goes by on the street far below.

Cassettes stacked next to the stereo, videotapes next to the television because he’s constantly working his way through some tedious documentary series and getting mixed up with her horror films and Classic Hollywood collection. His Dostoyevsky paperback tops the pile of history books on his side of the bed. By contrast, her Heyers and Christies line up neatly on the shelves of a bookcase with the occasional gap as one goes missing and inevitably turns up on his side. 

He’s been insisting for a while now that they need to buy artwork for the walls, and she agrees they will when he develops better taste beyond Cezanne. He gasps and calls her a philistine. She tells him to “Go look at some Boldini, you big poseur.” They have a running argument about Picasso being a jerk and whether the art transcends or reflects misogyny. He plays Paul Kelly and the Ramones and NWA while she rolls her eyes and plays Fleetwood Mac and Nine Inch Nails louder. But they both love James Joyce so that’s all right. “Wasn’t he a misogynist jerk too?” he murmurs in bed one night and she kicks him lightly, making him laugh and trap them both under the blanket. 

This squashy red couch they got from a secondhand place in Surry Hills. She had saved up enough to commission the neon cursive text on one wall that says Don’t Ever Repeat Yourself. He had looked at it, then went silent and thoughtful, and cast it a lot of glances over the next few days. It’s a Tim Buckley quote but she doesn’t tell him that yet. He’s terrible with money in the way young men frequently are, coming home with armfuls of Public Enemy albums and Classic Hollywood memorabilia. One day she just knows he’s going to bring a pinball machine home. But it’s his money and she’s not going to tell him how to spend it. She also knows how much he loves the way they live, that their home is so much cooler and cosier than the careless way his male friends live in some sharehouse. 

“Hey,” she says, her lips against his hair. “Look at us being adults. Adulting like woah.”

The corner of his mouth curls. Tipping his head back, he asks her, “Do you think we’ll ever feel like adults? You think you will?”

She thinks about it, absently admiring the way his brows slant, darkened now for the role, making him look like a kind of punk elf. Like Sylvester in that Heyer novel, was that it? “I don’t know,” she admits. “Probably not.” She likes the idea of them going through life like this, half teenagers at heart as their outsides change. “Or maybe … maybe it’ll be like moments?”

He raises his eyes to her face, watching her speak with all that keen attention.

“These weird big moments, you know, like when --”

“Buying a house,” he offers.

Her gaze flick across the loft space. “When we signed the lease on this place.”

“Yeah, but nah,” he interrupts, “that felt like --” a darting glance of blue grey “-- I don’t know about you, babe, but I felt -- and I don’t mean this in a --”

“I know,” she soothes. “Tell me.”

“-- it felt like playing. You know? In a good way,” he adds loudly and hastily, eager to reassure her. “Like it was a fun adult thing to do, not a … boring horrible one like … signing a mortgage or something.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, shuddering a little. “That sounds pretty scary.”

He makes a murmury sound, raising her hand to kiss her fingertips as he settles back in her arms. 

There was a ring she saw at Glebe Markets a couple of weekends ago. Dark pewter, narrow. She keeps thinking of how it’d look on his hand, dark metal against the pale strength of his fingers. For all his prettiness of face, he has surprisingly broad blunt hands, like they could be cruel and hurtful, horribly male in all the worst ways. But as she strokes his hair now and his leg starts to jiggle, she realises how deeply she trusts him, that there is a total absence of fear. The way it should be but never has. Until now.

He’s such a boy now, she wonders at the man he’ll grow into. Will all that baby fat fall away and leave him a lean elegant man? Will he turn sullen and lose that easy sunshine? Will the light go out of his eyes?

She wonders if she’ll be around to see it happen.

“Do you though?” He nudges her, curious. “Do you like it? The earring.”

She smiles fondly. “It’s ridiculous, I love it.” With her fingertip, she traces the edges and then touches his mouth. “It makes you look like a little twink.”

He laughs, catching her hand as he turns and proceeds to straddle her hips, rising above her, a lean young man with too much sweetness and softness in the shapes of his cheeks and chin. “I tell you about the time I worked in a gay bar?”

She makes a shocked face up at him. “No! What? Tell me, oh my god. Here?”

“Nah, back home.” He leans over her and grins, speaking so much sexual corruption in his eyes and curve of his mouth. 

Both her hands caught in both of his, she challenges, “Yeah? Did you get lots of attention? A lot of drinks bought? And offers?”

As his smile turns beatific with nostalgia, she’s struck by a thought. “I should take you to a club here. Down on Oxford Street somewhere.” 

“Yeah?” His voice goes low, those eyes a certain hot blue now. “You wanna pimp me out?”

“You might enjoy it … all those bodies, all that kissing and cock sucking.” He squirms against her, unmistakably turned on. “All that worship. You’d be so loved, so admired, so fucked out.”

He kisses her like an attack, all open mouth and teeth and tongue, and she meets it with her own excitement, arching up into his mouth. A tangle of sliding legs and arms, and then they’re fitting perfectly together, clothes still on, kissing slower and sweeter and deeper. He murmurs against her lips, his hands coming to her bare waist, firm hands on soft flesh that make her moan a little and arch into his touch. His body settles between her thighs, the right way now, his cock nudging her pelvis, all melting heat inside. “You love me,” he mumbles against her mouth.

“Do I?” she manages, arms twining around his shoulders. He has on some ratty sleeveless tee and cargo pants, his flesh sunwarm and smelling of the fresh city outdoors. And his mouth opens warm to hers, flicking wicked little tongue. Her fingertips on his jaw, she lets him kiss her deep, sinking back against the couch, sinking gratefully beneath his weight. He kisses thorough and slow these days, not like the sloppy eagerness when they first started but with a certain lazy sureness like he knows they have all the time and all the space to do this right.

“Tell me you like the earring. Tell me how much.”

She laughs faintly at this manipulation, shameless and sexual because he’s rocking in small steady movements against her cunt, and she can feel the shape of his cock hardening. Blue grey eyes through his lashes and hers, the taste of his lips and coffee on his breath. Gold flashes off the earring so she focuses and tugs his head back a little, unashamed to be a little cruel. And ha, he likes that anyway, the glint of teeth through that reckless smile.

“Show me.”

He lets her tip his head back, lets her come up enough to bite gently at the gold. His breath on her throat, he gasps a little and palms her breast through the fabric. It’s so private, what they do here, in this place that is theirs alone. The intimacy makes her head swim, unable to believe that this is the reality they’ve made. Making a young playful and a little bit depraved love.

She bites at the cross, that hard weird taste of metal, and bites at his earlobe and then across his jaw towards his mouth. Tiny precise seizes of teeth in flesh because he is hers and she wants to mark him. It makes him growl a little, squeezing her breast harder and then digging his fingers in under the lace, seeking flesh and nipple. It feels like they’re fighting a bit now, her mouth a little harder and then his catching hers, hungry and fierce, trying to take control. “Oh god,” she says involuntarily, her legs splaying open with the need to have him inside her, like she can feel it already. He grunts against her mouth, the same urgency as he pushes against her and then reaches down to cover her cunt with his hand.

“Take this off,” she says, tugging at the belt that fastens his cargos. “Take -- I want you now.” 

“Okay, but this -- I wanna see your tits.”

It’s a quick untangle of limbs and fabric, of kisses and whimpers. Blue lace and gingham on the floor by his toppled boots and jeans. And then unutterable sweetness and relief when they’re naked together, skin to skin as his cock moves deep into her. Warm and glad of it, she wraps her bare legs around him and pushes down against the yielding couch, her hands slipping over the curves of his bared arse, holding him in place. “Oh fuck, love you, love you,” he babbles like he’s forgetting all his sureness and starting to fuck her breathless and frantic. His hair falls into his eyes, colour across his cheekbones. This close he’s all faint pretty freckles and sharp uneven teeth, and she loves him so much her heart hurts to look at him, to see this all. 

They fuck with all the breathless urgency of here and now, familiar skin and smell, and then he pulls out, pulls her legs up so she’s totally exposed, cunt open to him. A little shocked but mostly delighted, she lets him grasp her ankles and drive his cock back into the wet ache of her flesh. He’s hammering deep into her now, half mindless half watching her eyes, watching her be taken over by this onslaught of sensation, of being fucked by him, bare breasts shaking and hot, ever closer ever closer, and then the tight convulsive arch of so much pleasure flooding through her, the heat and light and exquisite joy of here and now. When he comes into her, she is wrapped entirely around him, unashamed to hold on and hold hard, fingers curved over the back of his head, eyes closed and breathing steady.

“I do love you,” she says softly.

“I know you do,” he replies eventually, his voice slurry and smug as he nuzzles at the side of her face. “Cos I’m pretty and I cook all your favourite things.”

“So I should put up with your absurd earring cos you cook for me?”

“Yes. And you love me. Cos I’m adorable.”

She kisses his nose and tells him, “I think your logic is circular. But yes, you’re very cute and I adore you.”

He smiles at her, pure loveliness.

They’ll have their fancy adult dinner party tonight, and be all raucous and clever together with their friends. Leave the dishes in the sink as the moon rises through the big windows and they go to bed, pleasantly tired and thinking about the next day. He’ll curve his body around hers, tangle his fingers with hers, and talk to her about everything and nothing in his quiet thoughtful voice until they fall asleep and dream of a future all their own.


End file.
